Walking Wounded
by RabidSmurf
Summary: Shiro and the team find that his resurrection isn't the simple fix they'd all hoped. His spirit may be back, but his broken body and mind are betraying him.How do you save someone that doesn't know they need it?
1. Chapter 1

Shiro had yet to speak a single word since falling unconscious after Allura's resurrection. His eyes had fluttered open and he'd given them a reassuring whisper-just enough to show his spirit was back.

Keith wanted to be relieved, but ugly fingers of worry were still clawing into his subconscious. Something didn't feel right. He'd forced himself to smile and urge his friend and brother to rest. He wanted Shiro to know he could trust them to protect him. He didn't have to stay awake and fight any longer.

Keith turned in the cockpit and stared at the still limp figure tucked away on the bedding pallet Krolia had fashioned in the back of Black. Several blankets encased him snuggly, trapping his arms and legs securely inside the cocoon.

It seemed far too warm inside Black for so many blankets, but Keith still had the unnerving memories of Shiro's shivering body firmly rooted in his brain. He'd been trembling to violently when they'd carried him inside. Keith was more than willing to pile as many blankets on him as possible if it meant Shiro didn't feel like he was freezing to death. Briefly, Keith had considered whether the unnatural coldness was a side-effect of the astral plan. He'd felt the same soul-stealing chill of the empty void; he hadn't been trapped with it like Shiro had, though. That degree of freezing wasn't something that just went away.

"You should rest. You've been flying for nearly a full cycle."

The gentle voice was still firm enough to leave no room for discussion or argument. Krolia was offering him a familiar warning smile—a common enough sight now. Wordlessly, he rose from the pilot chair and watched his mother fluidly sink down and take his place, her hands already solid and confident on the controls.

"Rest. You will not be strong enough to care for him if you don't."

"I... it won't be me. Ryner and Ulaz will be there."

Krolia turned just enough that the full-force of her glare was still partially hidden. Keith was thankful for the small mercy.

"You may not be the one providing medical intervention, but you will be caring for him in some degree. He will not stand for anyone else."

Krolia turned back and left Keith with her grim prophecy. He had no response so he turned, instead, and began searching for a spare blanket and pillow.

Krolia was humming softly when he finally settled his makeshift bed beside Shiro's pallet and laid down. Keith allowed himself the pleasure of the familiar lullaby he heard his mother offer. She'd started humming to him that first night they'd spent stranded aboard the cosmic whale or whatever the creature really was. Neither verbally acknowledged the nightly tradition, but Keith knew his mother loved the comforting hums just as much as he did.

He stared over at Shiro's blank face, his skin still unnatural pale as if all of his blood had been drained. The only thing whiter was his hair. Shiro had been leeched of all color. It was fitting, Keith thought humorlessly. Ghosts are white.

"Keith, I can hear your fretting. Settle Kit."

Keith let his eyes fall shut, but not before reaching out and letting his fingers idle in the delicate hallow beneath Shiro's jaw. He kept them there until he felt the soft, steady tapping of life beneath the skin. He suspected he'd never be able to stop reassuring himself that Shiro was actually alive. Not when his existence felt so fragile.

* * *

Dark.

Cold.

Quiet.

Soft.

His fingers twitched against the coolness of the material beneath him. He listened to the steady thrumming surrounding him.

Growling. Danger. Monster. He was inside a monster's belly.

He tried to shift away from the throbbing tension radiating from deep within his back, but the softness kept him trapped, his arms useless at his sides.

He fought. He always had to fight.

The prison around him wouldn't give way.

He yelled, his voice too dry and scratching to make much sound. He wanted help.

If help was there. There had been no one for so long. Why should this time be any different?

A voice rose above the monster's growling, cracking with fear. The words didn't make sense. They hit his ears in a jumble of letters he was too exhausted to untangle.

"Sh'ro..."

He recognized that one, he thought.

"G...n... e...'kay! 'alm...n."

Shiro's eyes were open but the darkness was too thick to see through. He thrashed in the grip of the softness around him and prayed the voice would find a way to save him.

"Sh'ro!"

He knew The Voice.

* * *

"Why won't he calm down?"

Keith watched Shiro thrash and squirm, desperate to free himself from whatever prison he felt trapped in. It was like watching a monster shake him like a broken toy. Keith wanted to grab him, hold him. Do something to reassure him that he wasn't alone anymore and that he was safe. He couldn't though. He felt frozen, a spectator with no other choice but to watch.

"Keith, watch his head," Krolia called. She abandoned the pilot seat and knelt beside her son to watch. Silently, she removed the pillow from beneath Shiro's head and placed it against Black's wall to prevent a skull-jarring collision. Shiro squirmed harder when he felt her touch. He cried out, a visceral, broken sob that churned Keith's savagely.

"Shiro! It's going to be okay! Calm down."

Shiro didn't seem to hear Keith's voice. If he did, than Keith's reassurances must not have matter much.

"Shiro!" Keith repeated, ignoring the threatening crackle of his voice.

Krolia's hand rested hotly on Keith's shoulder.

It felt like hours, but it was probably only minutes. Shiro's desperate fighting slowly waned, probably more out of exhaustion than anything else. His body sagged limply against the pallet, his chest heaving and his moans wet. It was only when his body finally went completely still did Keith allow himself to release the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Nightmare?" he wondered aloud.

"Death terror," Krolia answered. "I've seen it in Blades who've come close to death but returned. The fear never truly leaves them. They relive their death."

"How are we supposed to help him?" Keith choked.

"We remind him that he is still alive."


	2. Chapter 2

Earth was broken in so many ways.

It wasn't even the traumatic, wanton displays of mass destruction that churned Keith's stomach. It was all the little things.

McDonalds was closed.

Keith glared at the busted windows and charred walls of the small fast food joint they sped past. It was such a small stupid thing, but he missed French fries. It was the one pleasure he hadn't managed to satisfy in space. He'd kept himself going some days by picturing French fries. He'd never admit it to the others, but fast food was his one guilty pleasure. He'd found it as a small child amid the angry, frustrated scrambles from foster home to foster home. Fast food was an easy way to calm a moody, non-vernal orphan. It even came with a cheap plastic toy.

"Have you heard from Shiro?"

Matt's quiet voice jarred Keith out of his introspection. He jerked upright in the passenger seat.

"I texted him last night. Again. He said he was fine."

"He's never been a good liar," Matt intoned. "What do you say we take a quick detour?"

"We're checking on him?"

"Of course we are... screw whatever his doctors said."

"He doesn't like it when we just show up."

It had been nearly seven months. They'd been busy months full of politics, re-building, and tentative treaties and peace. Earth was rebuilding and strong. Shiro had given every appearance of doing the same.

The first few months had been quiet and painful. Shiro had been in and out of consciousness, trapped in fits of emotion and confused amnesia. However, when the bouts had faded and Shiro started staying awake for longer and longer periods of time, nearly everyone had been happy to embrace Shiro's returning health. He played the part of a good patient-eating when the doctor's said, doing physical therapy, taking all his medication.

Keith had never bought the lie. Yes, he called it a lie. He saw the pained, forced smiles Shiro treated his fans. He saw the polite, gracious smiles he used on visiting politicians and Garrison command. Shiro wasn't really smiling.

Then there was the arm.

Keith felt his fingers nails sharp against his thighs, even through his course jeans. Shiro had refused care. He'd allowed the Garrison technicians and Dr. Holt enough time to seal off the damaged stump to prevent further electrical damage and any leaking radiation, but nothing else. He'd claimed it wasn't painful. He said he didn't want any replacement-not after the trauma of getting the prosthetic in the first place. Dr. Holt had shaken his graying head and reluctantly given his stamp of approval. The stump would be safe enough if Shiro really didn't want to pursue further treatment. Shiro seemed content enough living with one arm. He never spoke of it. He pinned his uniform sleeve neatly up and went about his business, oddly okay with the stares and whispers he ignored on a daily basis.

And just like that, Shiro managed to pick right up where he left off. Weekly Garrison meetings and new treaties with the numerous Rebels and refugees seeking new life on Earth in the wake of Zarkon's destruction. Media gatherings and news interviews still flooded Shiro's schedule. Everyone wanted a piece of Shiro the Hero.

No one cared what damage their attention could be doing.

"Shiro can go pout if he's angry about us visiting. He should be glad he's got friends visiting him, not another mob of reporters. I swear, if he has to move again..."

Keith glared up at the non-descript white apartment building. It was one of the few that were still fully intact and well-kept in the wake of Earth's battle. The Garrison had managed to pull a heavy handful of strings to arrange of Shiro's relocation after yet another clique of paparazzi snooped out his address.

"Okey dokey, let's do this. If he gets suspicious, we'll just say we stopped by to ask if he wanted to go grab pizza with us."

"He'll know where checking up on him," Keith argued.

"Like I said... we're getting pizza."

Keith snorted. Shiro may be many things after his resurrection, but stupid he wasn't. He'd see through their charade.

Matt knocked loudly on the door and leaned heavily against the railing impatiently. Keith watched him eye the sad, wilted flower pot hanging from the ceiling. The flowers hadn't been watered in weeks.

There was heavy footsteps behind the door and a meaningful hesitation. Keith squirmed, acutely aware of the eyes watching them through the peep hole in the door. Shiro would know that he and Matt were purposely skipping a Garrison meeting to come visit him. He knew their schedule better than they did.

The door flung open and Shiro stood staring with dull, disapproving eyes.

Matt didn't even wait. He brushed past the man and Keith watched him stalk through the house.

"Just wanted to... you know," Keith met Shiro's eyes for the first time. "Matt wanted to get pizza," Keith finished, hating himself. Shiro shot him a frustrated glare.

"Keith, we've been over this. I'm fine. I promise. I'm just happier alone right now. I need some time and I need some space."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Shiro never got a chance to answer.

"Hey, look at this dump! What have you been doing in here? I've seen planets Zarkon invaded that looked cleaner than this!"

Keith stared past Shiro's broad shoulders and watched Matt pick up a blanket with just the tips of his fingers. His nose was wrinkled in blatant disgust.

"I swear!" Matt continued. "You were even this messy back when we were roomies at the Garrison."

"Matt, give me a break. It's just me living here..." Shiro muttered, stalking over. "I clean... just a little behind today."

Matt's face went carefully blank with pensive skepticism.

"Mom is mad at you," he blurted."

"What?"

"She said you refused to come over for dinner. She was making her stuffed ricotta shells-the ones you used to kill for."

"I appreciated her offer, but I'm not really up to company right now."

Shiro sounded like a broken record.

"Do you want to go out to the shack?" Keith heard himself suddenly blurt. Both Shiro and Matt treated him to a long stare. Keith shrugged. "What? It's still standing. Not even Zarkon could take it out. I was thinking of fixing it up."

Shiro's eyes softened ever so slightly and for a split second Keith thought his distraction had gained ground. He'd gotten through to Shiro! He was goin to coax him out of his brooding shell of solitude!

"I can't right now, Keith. Give me a week or two... I need to catch up on some reports. I'll make it out there, though. I promise."

Keith felt himself wilt under the dismissal.

Matt was already moving on. He'd made it to the kitchen with Shiro huffing after him, face tight and lined with irritation. Matt paid no head to Shiro's firm orders to get out.

"What have you been eating!?" a voice screeched. Keith heaved a sigh and popped into the kitchen behind them. Matt stood at the refrigerator, door flung open. He was glaring at Shiro, all teasing and sarcasm gone. Matt looked scared.

"There's nothing in here."

"I was going to grocery shop today-before visitors decided to drop in and waste my time!" Shiro barked back. Keith flinched at the anger. Shiro was never angry. He was never rude.

"Shut up. You know you're being a pretty big jerk right now, Golden Boy; especially given the fact we came here to check on you. I don't care what crap you feed the media and the Shirogane fan club, but we're your friends. We're worried about you."

"Why? I'm fine! I keep telling everyone that I'm good. I don't need anything. Why can't you all just leave me alone."

"Because people do bad things when they're left alone!" Matt snapped back without missing a beat. "When people are hurt and alone, they make stupid decisions. They hurt themselves worse!"

A fist crashed down on the counter so hard the cupboards rattled. The kitchen went eerily silent. Keith stood watched Matt and Shiro, the pair nearly nose-to-nose. Shiro's fist unclenched and returned to his side, trembling.

"Get out of my house. Now."

Matt's eyes flashed. Anger first then something soft and pained. "Shiro-"

"Now."

"Matt brushed past Keith. The front door slammed a moment later and Keith was left alone. Shiro was still standing in the kitchen, eyes rooted to the floor. He looked lost.

Keith opened his mouth but he abruptly realized he had no clue what to say. Everything sounded wrong. There was nothing that would fix this. He turned and walked out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**_A little of Shiro's perspective from last chapter...cause why not? Trigger warnings? Disjointed thinking and hints of ensuing panic attacks and self-loathing. Shiro is not in a good head space right now and his thought processes are reminiscent of someone really struggling with mental health._**

* * *

He should probably clean up today.

He'd been rehearsing that same pathetic fact nearly every day for almost a week. He stared around the living room of his cramped new apartment like a stranger in a foreign land. Moving boxes sat stacked precariously and several rumpled changes of clothes were strewn over the back of his couch. He didn't even remember whether they were clean. The apartment had been him for nearly a month, but he had yet to completely move in. Part of him strongly suspected the Garrison would end of moving him again once the paparazzi sniffed out his new hiding place. Why unpack boxes when he'd just have to pack them all over again?

His excuses were pathetic but he was a grown man, he told himself. If he didn't feel like unpacking his meager possessions who had any authority to order him. Quiznack, if he felt like sitting around in his boxers eating poptarts for the rest of the day what did it matter!

Shiro puttered to the kitchen and found himself staring blankly into the barren refrigerator. Several small, grease-stained boxes of take out sat abandoned. He wasn't even sure when or where he'd gotten them. What was this? Chinese?

Shiro sniffed, gagged, and promptly set the box back inside. He'd have to clean this out later. Wipe the fridge out... Grocery shop for some real food at some point. Logic told him he was hungry. He had no clue when or what he'd eaten last. Still, he found it out his stomach wasn't rumbling with hunger. He didn't seem to need food anymore.

His phone went off in his pocket and he jerked, his back painfully seizing at the sudden sharpness of the movement. He swallowed down a wince and peered down at the reminder chirping at him on his phone.

 _Garrison Meeting: Ambassadors' luncheon. DRESS NICE!_

He found himself glaring, but the expression felt cold and detached. When had he written that reminder? He didn't remember having plans for today. How long ago had this been scheduled? And what was this about dressing nice?! The last question came out as a hysterical mental shriek. Dress nice? What did that mean? How nice? Garrison Grays nice? Tuxedo? Business casual? The swarm of options left Shiro's mind dizzy and his chest tight. It was just clothes. Why was he freaking out over clothes? He left he question unanswered as he shuffled quickly to his bedroom in search of fresh laundry. The reminder said the luncheon was due at 1300 hours. He had two hours to get his act together. _Plenty of time,_ he tried assuring himself.

The laundry basket in his room was empty. In a rush of icy panic, Shiro raced to the laundry machine only to find the clothes inside a sodden mildew-ridden mess. He had no idea when he'd run the load of clothes or how long they'd sat cold and stewing in the machine. He banged the lid down and yanked the drier open. Socks and underwear greeted him.

He was sniffing the pile of clothes draped over the sofa shamelessly when a series of knocks banged his front door. Shiro nearly stopped breathing. He stood gasping in shock over the sudden noise as he tried to gather his thoughts. _What was he doing? Looking for clean clothes. Dress nice! Everything's dirty. I need to grocery shop later. Who's at my door?_

Matthew Holt stood grinning infuriatingly at him when Shiro finally managed to open his front door. Keith stood at the young man's side, his face a closed-off scowl that looked more worried than irritated. Matt was already brushing past Shiro before he fully understood what his visitor was even saying to him. Shiro wanted to protest. Yell. Scream. Order them out. Matt was already savagely berating him about the level of clutter infecting Shiro's apartment. Shiro took the rebukes stubbornly like a toddler fighting a spoonful of medicine. He protested, but he knew Matt was right. He was a slob. He was a grown man, a soldier, a Champion, a hero. He couldn't keep his own apartment clean.

Shiro noticed the look of dread seeping over Keith's face as he watched the whole spectacle playing out. The boy looked just as uncomfortable as Shiro felt. He wished Matt hadn't dragged Keith into this. Keith didn't need to seem him like this. He'd been Keith's idol. Now, he couldn't even remember to grocery shop or pull his soggy clothes out of the washing machine.

Shiro heard himself reassuring Keith. Promising him to come visit the shack once he'd gotten more organized. Shiro didn't bother acknowledging the fact that he'd had months to get his act together. If he couldn't figure out how to start living like normal after all those months, when would he? Shiro knew Keith deserved better than his own half-cracked delusional lies.

And then Shiro was yelling. His fist ached and for a split second he almost forgot that he only had one now. The kitchen countertop rattled from the force of his pounding, and Keith and Matt stood staring with matching flashes of pained horror as Shiro well and truly lost his brain. He ordered them out, swallowing back the simmering rage that had somehow began brewing inside him. Why was he so angry? They'd just been checking on him. He should be glad that they still cared.

 _No! They don't trust me! They're just being nosy like the reporters. Looking for stories. For dirt they could spread._

 _I need to grocery shop later._

 _My laundry is ruined. Should I wash it again?_

 _What was I scheduled to do this afternoon? A lunch?_

The apartment was suddenly quiet and Shiro realized he was still standing alone in the kitchen, his mind racing through a million orders and thoughts. How long ago had Keith and Matt left?

Shiro's gut clenched and he raced to the sink and let himself heave. Greenish gray bile burned his throat on the way up and the cold tendrils of self-loathing took hold. Shiro heard himself yelling at Keith and Matt. He'd banished them from his apartment without a shred of apology. They probably hated him now.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He waited until the heaving stopped and forced himself to swish a glass of cold water in his mouth until the acid faded from his taste buds. He sank to the kitchen floor and yanked his phone out. A new reminder flashed at him.

 _Pick up suit from cleaners_.

Shiro blinked and the dilemma from earlier rushed back with fresh focus. He had clothes for the luncheon. He glanced at the time. Only one hour left. If he left now, he'd have just enough time to pick up the suit and make it to the Garrison. Maybe he wasn't well and truly screwed just yet.

He heaved a shaky sigh and forced himself upright for the bathroom. He needed a shower and a shave. He'd feel better then.

* * *

The luncheon was going about as well as Shiro expected. A dozen or so alien ambassadors mingled happily in the Garrison's conference room, chatting amiable with one another the handful of Garrison and Earth representatives. Trays of _hors d'oeuvers_ lay scattered throughout the room as well as trays of some sparkly drink Shiro couldn't place. The elegant fair had Hunk's talented touch written all over it and Shiro wondered idly where the yellow paladin was. How long had it been since he'd visited him? Guilt stung Shiro. He should be checking on him-on all of the team. What kind of leader was he if he didn't even know the last time he'd chatted with one of his own team mates?

"Commander Shirogane!"

The eager voice was like an ice pick through Shiro's eardrums. He jumped and disguised his jerk of surprise with a forced smile that felt anything but real. A slender, pink alien stood smiling widely at him, her six luminescent eyes beaming at him. He blinked and forced his smile wider to compensate for his lack of recognition. Who was this ambassador? Ambassador Crenich? Silva?

"It is marvelous to see you again," the alien said with a warm smile. She extended a thin, spindly hand and Shiro had no idea what to do with it. "I know you've been extremely busy since your return, but I'm pleased you were able to attend today. It is an honor."

Shiro's smile felt stale. His own greeting felt trapped in his throat. Why was talking suddenly so hard?

"The honor is mine. Thank you for attending," he forced out. "How is your stay on Earth?" Get her talking about herself, he told himself. Keep her busy talking and you won't have to.

The alien began a long and excited commentary on her new earth experiences and Shiro made a show of nodding and smiling, his mind a million lightyears away. He was busy plotting his escape.

Across the room, a familiar face caught Shiro's eyes. He jerked slightly in recognition and his tuxedo suddenly felt several sizes too small. He resisted the urge to pull at the constricting collar choking his neck. The stump of his arm began burning beneath the empty sleeve he'd so carefully pinned up and out of the way.

Ulaz's face went soft and his eyes looked pained as they locked with Shiro's. Shiro couldn't decide whether he wanted to run to the Galra or duck out of sight and escape. He'd never quite managed to unravel his complicated relationship with Ulaz. It was anything but black and white. Ulaz had helped take his body apart. He'd also helped put him back together again. Did that neutralize the harm?

"Commander Shirogane?"

Shiro's attention was yanked back to the nameless ambassador still talking to him. She went quiet, her face expectant and Shiro realized with horror she must have just asked him a question. A question he hadn't heard.

"Ambassador," he fumbled. "Please excuse me. I'm not feeling well." Shiro left before he heard the response to his flimsy excuse. He wasn't quite sure where he was going until he was standing directly in front of Ulaz's giant figure.

"Takashi," Ulaz rumbled. Shiro felt the vibration of Ulaz's voice more then he heard the words. A sudden wash of "safe" rolled over him.

"Ulaz, you're... here?"

"Kolivan asked I take his place today at the luncheon. He was called away to oversee a new base installation." Ulaz went quiet and Shiro could feel the eyes weighing heavily on him.

"You are unwell."

It wasn't a question. Shiro wanted to squirm guiltily.

"I'm okay... just a little tired, I guess. Resurrection takes a lot out of you," he joked. Neither of them laughed.

"How is your arm fairing? I heard you refused treatment. I can craft a new prosthesis for you myself if the earth options are displeasing."

A warmth bloomed in Shiro's chest at the show of concern, but it quickly soured and went cold at the thought of someone-even Ulaz-tinkering with the remaining stump of his arm. It would mean another surgery. Testing. Touching. Pain. Recovery.

"It's okay, Ulaz," he quickly assured him. "I'm okay without a prosthesis. I'm getting used to one arm now. It's not that big of a deal."

Ulaz looked anything but convinced. "What is troubling you, Shiro?"

Shiro looked him in the eye and all lies died on his tongue. Thankfully, Iverson saved him.

"I would like to personally thank each and every one of you who attended today's luncheon," the Garrison commander announced to the room, his voice booming. The ambassadors and delegates went quiet and the room stilled as the meeting officially came to order. "It is an honor to host so many fine representatives of the best of our galaxies," Iverson continued.

Shiro edged away from Uaz and retreated across the room. He managed to escape the physician for the rest of the afternoon. It was only hours later in the grungy safety of his trashed apartment that Shiro bothered to answer the question Ulaz had posed.

What was troubling him?

Shiro swallowed hard and let himself sink to the floor, his back tight against the wall of his bathroom as he regarded the dark circles ringed beneath his eyes and the white shock of rumpled hair that had aged him years.

He had no idea what was wrong with him.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: been having some bad brain days lately so like any good writer, I'm taking it out on my favorite characters for some gratuitous whumpage. Warnings: Heavy connotations of mental illness and auditory hallucinations. Shiro's headed in a bad place.** **For the record this will have comfort at some point.**

* * *

Keith hadn't missed the Garrison... not really. His time in space had only reinforced his lingering resentment and ire over the strict rules and stoic indoctrination the Galaxy Garrison loved to foist on its students. There had never been room for creativity and personal expression. Rules were the life-blood of the school. Iverson had changed though. World-dominating alien invasions had a way of changing hard-set habits and attitudes. Keith had to admit that he was in favor of the director's newly-gained social skills. The man actually listened to others speak now. Apparently, his observation skills had sharpened as well.

Shiro was late.

Iverson harrumphed and glanced at his watch for the hundredth time. Keith felt himself stiffen involuntarily at the tense questioning mutter of the reporters scattered throughout the press room. Iverson waited half-a-tick longer in his straight-backed chair before rising stiffly, his aging joints giving audible creaks and crackles at the movement. The man made his way to the absent podium and leaned into the half-crook microphone. He gave the reporters a smile that looked far too similar to a grimace to be effective. Keith knew that no one was fooled.

"I apologize for the tardiness of out interview. I fully realize the valuable nature of your time. Commander Shirogane has no doubt experienced unprecedented circumstances that hindered his arrival. I know him well and tardiness is something intolerable to his nature. I am positive he is on his way as we-"

The side door to the press room banged open and every eye shot to the far wall. Keith felt himself rise unconsciously from his seat at the sight that met his eyes. Shiro rushed into the room, his movements nearly a stagger. Even from a distance, Keith spotted the heavy wrinkles marring Shiro's dress grays. The hat was missing altogether and the sleeve of Shiro's missing arm fluttered haphazardly like a disheartening flag as he rushed to the podium to join Iverson. He hadn't pinned it neatly to his uniform like useless. His missing arm was even more obvious than usual now.

Shiro leaned into the microphone and gave a smile that never reached his eyes. His words were ever-so-slightly bitten off and choppy. He was short of breath and trying hard to disguise it.

"I apologize for my lateness. Some... issues arose this morning that I was not anticipating. Please, let's begin. I don't wish to waste anymore of your time."

There was something off about Shiro's usual level of professionalism and diplomacy. Keith frowned at the niggling burr that worked its way into his brain. He couldn't put a finger on it. He sat listening instead as the reporters instant fired off question-after-question regarding the Atlas, the Alliance, and Voltron in general. Several questions were directed at Shiro's personal life, but Shiro managed to give half-answers that answered nothing in particular. He was just vague enough to avoid giving out any actual information. The reporters were undaunted, however. It took several well-timed glares from Iverson to finally re-direct all questions back to a business nature.

Shiro seemed to adjust to the interviews and questioning intuitively. Keith watched closely and felt himself relax at the natural ease Shiro put on. Wrinkles aside and untucked uniform sleeve notwithstanding, Shiro almost seemed like his old self. Confident, at ease, and gracious. Reporters loved him. His looks, his mannerisms, his natural charm. His backstory made for appetizing angst and drama-fodder. What more could they ask for?

Then it dropped.

The bomb.

Keith anger rose hot and sudden like napalm. He was standing before he realized he'd left his chair.

The reporter was smiling oddly as if they were proud of their own ingenuity for coming up with such an outrageous question.

"Commander Shirogane, would you care to address the rumors that have been circulating regarding the state of your mental health. I have it on good authority that you've been experiencing some quite unpleasant side-effects of your past trauma. Have you been seeking treatment and would you describe the Garrison as supportive of your... impairments?"

Shiro just stood and stared out at the crowd. His face had gone blank.

Keith stood in front of his chair and watched. The reporters were buzzing and murmuring to themselves. Several looked outraged at the stark and invasive questioning. Maybe not all of them were vultures.

"I speak for the entire Garrison that Commander Shirogane is 100% capable and qualified in terms of his work with us and leadership. He's given us no reason to question his ability and skills. I find your insinuation unprofessional. I would caution against libel."

Iverson left no room for discussion. The reporter sat back down, but a smile still seemed to play about his features. He wasn't done.

Shiro seemed to snap back into focus. Keith wondered if he'd even heard Iverson's reprimand.

"Next question, please." With that, Shiro forged forward as if nothing had happened. Keith wasn't convinced. From where he sat off-stage, he watched Shiro' remaining hand tap a familiar, haunting pattern against his uniform pants.

 _Tap-tap-Tap. pause. Tap-tap,tap,tap. Pause_.

Shiro was counting off Galra sentry rotations. He felt just as trapped on that stage as he had back in the Galra prisons.

* * *

The familiar gloom of his apartment was welcoming and safe. Shiro stood in the doorway and stared with a warm relief at the familiar scene of his living room. He shoved a pile of laundry off his couch and sat. He didn't move, didn't think. He just sat. It occurred to him that he should change. His uniform was scratchy and clammy with cold, half-dried sweat. He shrugged off the dress shirt, fumbling with the flapping, empty sleeve of his missing arm. It caught uncomfortably on the awkward remains of his stump. He fought through the last few buttons and tossed it to the ground. He lay down in his pants and damp undershirt and brought his knees up to his chest unconsciously. He closed his eyes and breathed. His arm ached and his pulse banged but the silence of his apartment was a relief from the clamor of the interviews and questions. The voice of the hawkish reporter that had questioned his sanity still echoed in his mind. The question was trapped in re-play, each repetition more prying and accusing. Something hot and wet suddenly rolled down Shiro's cheek. The tears startled him. He touched the moisture in shock. He hadn't felt like crying. Why was he crying?

 _He's right. He's just concerned-like everyone else is. Shiro the Hero is gone._

The Voice wasn't his own. It wasn't from his head. It wasn't his internal guilt.

The Voice sat down beside him, too close for Shiro to ignore or escape. He blinked dully at the shadow that rested beside him on his couch. He wasn't afraid surprisingly. It occurred to him that he should be. The Voice didn't sound frightening though. It wasn't menacing. It was honest, straightforward. Much like Shiro knew he normally was. The Voice had a familiar quality about it that seemed to put him at ease.

"Not crazy... I can still work," Shiro heard himself argue. The Voice seemed contemplative.

 _Do you want to work? You don't have to. You should be able to take time off._

Shiro considered the Voice's advice. He knew he could probably ask for almost anything and the Garrison would accommodate him. They had already done so much.

"Time off?"

 _Rest, relax, get your life in order again. Work will be there still when you get back. They deserve Shiro the Hero-the better version of you. Get better and then go back._

The Voice made sense. Shiro couldn't find a good argument.

 _Message Iverson._ The Voice ordered.

The quick email was easy enough to type. Shiro read it over several times and fixed the typos. He smiled in relief and hit send. A weight rolled off his shoulders at the simple gesture. He was free. Alone. No more prying eyes and questions. He sighed in relief and buried under his blanket. The Voice didn't say anything, but Shiro could feel the approval that he'd taken their advice. It felt good to make the right decision again.

* * *

Matt wasn't happy. Keith wanted to smirk at how similar Matt and Pidge looked when they were upset. The same Holt irritability was shared between them. Nothing made them look more like twins. Any pleasure that Keith would have normally gained from Matt's irritation was completely lost though. He was too worried to tease.

"He just up and bailed?" Matt pressed. He banged his glass down and stared across the table at his father. Lunch lay forgotten before him.

"Iverson got the email last night," Sam explained patiently. He pushed his own lunch away and wiped his hands and continued, "He was in full agreement that Shiro deserved some time off. He's been fielding press conferences and meetings for weeks straight since you all got back. We can get by without him for awhile. It's the least we can do."

Sam Holt seemed contemplative but accepting. His reassurance was doing little to soothe Matt's irritation though. Keith didn't feel much better. In one fell swoop, Shiro had spontaneously cancelled all of his upcoming meetings and appearances and left. He hadn't said where he was going or for how long. He'd politely but firmly excused himself for a vacation. There was nothing to be done. Keith could probably track him down if he really wanted. Did he though. Would Shiro want him to? Keith cringed inwardly at his own self-loathing. Was he clingy? A needy little tag-a-long that couldn't even give Shiro much-deserved privacy? Shiro would feel better alone. He'd have time and privacy to recover however he needed to. The anger of Shiro's last interaction with him and Matt back at his apartment was still fresh in Keith's mind. He had no right to bother Shiro after all that had happened.

No, Keith decided. He wouldn't interfere. He'd give Shiro the space he wanted.

* * *

Shiro munched the cracker hollowly. He sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor and regard the meager snack irritably. His stomach was hallow and churning. The cracker was stale and chewy. He swallowed the bite and tossed the sleeve away. He wasn't hungry. Stiffly, he rose and cupped his hand beneath the kitchen faucet. He sipped at a handful of water and licked his dry, cracked lips. He couldn't remember when he drank last, but the water seemed oddly stale too just like his crackers. Could water go bad? He frowned and went to the refrigerator. He remembered seeing juice inside, but when he opened the door, the bare shelf greeted him. He sighed in disappointment. He had wanted the juice.

Oh, well.

The door thudded shut and Shiro sat back down on the kitchen floor. The cool tile felt soothing against his hot skin. He pressed his face against the floor and sighed. The throb of his stump made him wince. What was left of his arm was a menace. He almost wished he would have just asked Sam and Ulaz to remove all of it when they'd first returned. He didn't want to be stuck with a useless stump anymore. Better to have no reminder of the arm at all.

 _I wonder what Haggar did with the original?_

Shiro shivered when he heard the Voice but didn't respond. He didn't want to think about Haggar or any other Galra.

 _She probably diced it up-experimented on it._ The Voice laughed. _Maybe she grew a whole new Shiro out of it-your clone remember? She sprouted a clone army with your arm_. The Voice tsked. _Should've kept better track of your body._

"Shut up."

 _Just making conversation. It's okay. You can talk to me._

It struck Shiro that he was alone. He was by himself in his apartment. There was no one to talk to. He was talking to someone though.

"I don't want to talk."

 _I'm all you've got now, Shiro. No one else wants you. No one else cares. At least you still have me._

"They... still care."

 _Why should they? You've nothing left to offer. You're too weak to fight. Too tired to plan. You don't look like a leader anymore. No more Shiro the Hero._

"Just need to get better again. I'll go back when I feel better."

 _When?_

Shiro choked back a cry of pain. His arm stump throbbed. He felt it draining life from his body like a leaky pipe. He didn't know when he'd feel better. He didn't even know what he needed to do. Was there medicine he could take for this? What was wrong with him?

Ulaz's face briefly flashed in his mind, but it looked so disappointed Shiro couldn't stand it. He pushed the image from his mind. He couldn't stand to see Ulaz's disappointment. He'd fallen so far from the Champion status he'd won. Ulaz wouldn't want to see him this low and wretched. Lying in his own kitchen alone and disgusting. Ulaz wouldn't want to help him.

 _Shiro, I'm here_ , the voice promised.

Shiro sobbed harder at the gentle tone. The Voice was with him, whoever it was. The Voice didn't care what he was like now.


End file.
